TA BU OR NOT TA BU
The True Tales of an Aging Hippie Chick
By J.R. Bergstrom
Smashwords Edition
COPYRIGHT © 2011 by J.R. Bergstrom
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Published in the United States of America.
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One of the oddest things in life, I think, is the things one remembers. — Agatha Christie
The essence of my story is true, but details have been altered to protect certain people from being recognized. A few characters have been blended. The names Mr. Blades and Dr. Hammer are real and strangely fitting to the significance of this story, and everything I write about them is as true to my memory as possible. Other names have been invented to embellish the stories. The names Nora, Bess and Shelly are used interchangeably throughout the story to represent the many wonderful girlfriends I grew up with.
To
my husband, my brother, my son, and my friend Carl,
who
are some of the most decent men I know.
Table of Contents
MRS. DONNA STONE WAS FAKING IT
BLADES AND A HAMMER; TOOLS OF THE TRADE
CHARM AND DISARM: HOW TO SNAG THE PERFECT MATE
MRS. DONNA STONE AND MRS. GLORIA STEINEM: CAT FIGHT IN AMERICA
SKINNY LOU: FRIENDSHIP VERSUS LUST
OH THOSE SEXY BAD BOYS: LUST VERSUS FRIENDSHIP
I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU EX-HUSBAND AND EX-WIFE
MRS. DONNA STONE AND GLORIA STEINEM MAKE PEACE
CONVERSATIONS WITH MOM AND DAD
PROLOGUE
My story is about growing up in the 1950s and 1960s and the dramatic social changes that propelled society in new directions. Looking back, I can say some things are better because of the tremendous reverberations of the 1960s, and some things are worse. It depends on how you look at it.
This is a story about polarities. This is a story about truth and lies, right and wrong, victimization and survival, children and adults, rebellion and conformity, realities and fantasies, idealism and realism, guilt and innocence, holding grudges and forgiving, certainties and uncertainties, defeat and triumph, and consenting and relenting.
This is a story about finding the personal truths that exist somewhere in between polarities.
This is a story about Blades and Hammers.
This is a story about questions that have no answers.
This is a story about finding a balance between fantasies, idealism, realities, and experiences.
This is a story about healing.
This story is a slice of my life and told through my experiences, but it is also a story about my generation.
My name is J.R. Bergstrom and I have a perfect life.
So far, I have had an ordinary life filled with joy and sorrow and all the in-between stuff. My birth, my genetics, my family, my country, my education, my environment, and every waking moment have provided me with a full range of experiences unique to me and only me. For these reasons, my life has also been extraordinary. For these same reasons, we are all extraordinary.
I taught elementary school for many years and then taught art for five years before retiring to pursue making my own art, writing stories, and traveling.
I am married to a handsome doctor and we have three kind, loving, adult children. Several years ago we built our dream home on seven acres, where we love to putter in the gardens growing flowers and vegetables, and gather eggs from our chickens. My husband now works part-time and makes beautiful furniture. He cooks and cleans, too. He’s wonderful to me, and I am still in love with him after thirty years.
During our years together we have traveled to many places in the world to ski, sail, hike, bike, and kayak.
We have a large community of friends and we are blessed to know so many loving people.
My life has many of the same characteristics of a 1950s TV family sitcom or a fairy tale.
People who know me are sometimes envious of the external appearances of this life my husband and I have built. They tell me how lucky I am and I agree, but my internal life—the one that isn’t visible—tells another part of my story.
THE WORD
“No buts! No goshes or gees either!” — Mrs. Donna Stone scolds her children. Episode 5, The Donna Reed Show
I would like to break the habit of using the f-word. Sometimes though, a different word doesn’t fit. I tried replacing the f-word with ‘fudge’, but when read aloud it sounded too silly so I substituted the word ‘mess’, but that lacked a punch—a certain “shock and awe” necessary to relay meaning. In the end I decided to be true to my vices and use ‘fuck.’ Realistically, it’s a harmless word, after all. Even so, I will use it sparingly after this first passage.
When I was young, I fucked up because I was fucked up. But then, what could be expected from someone who was fucked around with at an early age? In many ways, my childhood was ideal and I was not a total fuckhead who spent every waking minute fucking up, but once you’ve been fucked over, the cycle begins. You don’t even know it.
Fucking up breeds fucking up.
It took me a long time to understand I was fucked up, it took a long time to figure out why I was fucked up, and it took a long time to figure out how to get over being fucked up. All this fucking around taught me about empathy and forgiveness. I can relate to underdogs and people who walk on the darker side. I think everybody should take a walk on the wild side. It has a lot to teach us—especially about judgment.
For many years I thought of myself as a bad person who wanted to be good. Now I think of myself as a good person who tries to avoid doing bad things. This is an improvement. Self-hatred debilitates. Self-love awakens.
I found God in myself and loved her fiercely. — Ntozake Shange
My teenage years, starting in the mid 1960s, was a time filled with conflicting fantasies, conflicting idealism, and conflicting realities. These experiences, mixed with surging hormones, thrust me into a spinning cycle of confusion and depression. The upheaval and changes of the status quo questioned racism, feminism, sexuality, bigotry, violence, greed, political corruption, war, pollution, overpopulation, spiritualism versus religious doctrine, and the threat of nuclear annihilation. These issues pissed off many people— especially young people who stood next in line to take over leadership.
The influence of the 1960s on history meant different things to different people. Although I felt an emotional impact from many of the matters in question, feminist issues had a tremendous influence on me, and caused me the most angst. I was swept up in the sexual revolution. Due to reliable methods of contraception and a new sexual freedom, doors opened that allowed women to explore sex with different partners and to do away with shame. Rejection of social mores about marriage and family, and the ability to have financial independence made sense to many us. Many crimes of the heart no longer seemed like crimes. Premarital sex, pregnancies without marriage, multiple partners, open marriages, group sex, homosexuality, and other taboos were suddenly—practically overnight—no longer considered taboo. Saving our virginity for marriage became passé—quaint—and ridiculous. “You wouldn’t buy a dress without trying it on,” one woman said to me in defense of premarital sex.
With these new freedoms, new problems spun into existence. Like many, I blundered into this openness without new guidelines of morality and responsibility to replace the former rigid expectations of femininity As a young girl, I’d been primed to follow. Not only that, but my realities didn’t fit with my fantasies or idealism. Many of the old ideals didn’t make sense, but neither did many of the new ones. I learned the hard way that crimes of passion could still wreak havoc. I should have known better about some things, but like I said, I was fucked up. Lust is still number one on the list of seven deadly sins.
God made sex too strong — it causes too many problems. — Mom
MRS. DONNA STONE WAS FAKING IT
Men applaud imitation, and hiss the real thing. — Aesop
When I was a little girl, I imagined I’d grow up to be like the beautiful and happily married ladies on TV in the 1950s and 1960s.
Each morning I’d awaken with a perky smile, perfectly coiffed hair, wearing a lacy nightgown, and have morning breath as sweet as a peppermint candy. I’d jump out of my bed, peck a kiss on the cheek of my groggy husband, who slept next to me in his twin bed, then rush off to prepare for the needs of my busy family. Tidy problems with tidy solutions could be wiped away as though swishing a feather duster like a magical wand. With infinite patience and a generous budget, I’d help my daughter find a prom dress. My son, full of rambunctious antics, would always make me smile. Each evening, I’d greet my tired husband as he returned home from work, ready with a tray of chilled martinis garnished with speared olives. Meals would appear like magic from an oven. In a flouncy dress and clacking high heels, I’d serve tuna noodle casseroles, green beans, slices of white bread, and tubs of brightly colored Jell-O. My loved ones would carry on with appreciative praises for the delicious meals. Afterwards, they’d kiss my cheek before rushing off to take care of their important business. With a radiant grin and a shake of my head, I’d scrape the leftovers into the garbage and tackle the piles of dirty dishes. Marital disagreements would be extinguished quickly with a stomp of my foot and a pout as my husband flashed a smile and patted my head and delivered sweet kisses. Within minutes we’d make up, harsh words forgotten. These are the wholesome escapades of domestic rapture that captured my dreams. Like the fairytale promises of true love, I would live happily ever after.
My favorite character, Mrs. Donna Stone from the legendary The Donna Reed Show, was the epitome of elegance and success. Even when she was mad at the kids or her husband, or grumpy about housework, she embodied an adorable charm. She lived in a spotless house with a handsome devoted husband, Dr. Alex Stone, and their well-mannered, well-adjusted children, Mary and Jeff.
The first ten years of my life, many paradigms of families scripted in the early TV world were misrepresentations of reality that led me to believe in nothing less than a perfect life. I didn’t know going to college had anything to do with pursuing an education--I thought of it as this benign place where women dressed up to go to dances, go on dates, and to shop for a husband. Once I snagged the perfect mate, I’d become engaged, and then marry in a fluffy white wedding dress. Soon, babies would join us to complete our family. From then on, putting my family’s needs first and obeying my husband’s protective authority assured me of a life of comfort and security. Due to his superior intelligence, I’d never have to be concerned with worldly matters and other complicated decisions, or need to discuss unpleasant business. To be disagreeable was undignified, and personal fulfillment was considered selfish. Such were the aspirations for me and many young women of my generation.
I remained oblivious to the incongruence between my TV family and my real family. My parents were loving and responsible, but Dad’s daily departure to work and Mom’s daily whirl of frenzied housework and cooking didn’t help me grasp the finesse of family life. Pretending to be Donna, I played house, changed the diapers of my Bess Wetsy doll, and cooked fake meals in my toy oven. What fun I had.
The first time I questioned the authenticity of Mrs. Donna Stone’s fairy tale life came the summer after fifth grade when I was hired to babysit for Mr. and Mrs. Ronald H. Patterson, who had three children under the age of five. Mrs. Nanette Patterson worked full time to support the family and pay for the advancement of Mr. Patterson’s career while he attended the university. I already babysat evenings for them while the children slept, so I felt qualified to take on the weekday routine. Apparently, they thought so, too.
The Patterson children were adorable, and I was eager to roll in the big bucks from babysitting. I calculated the money needed to buy the powder blue ski parka I coveted and at 25¢ an hour, I’d have enough by the end of summer with some left over to buy some school clothes.
The first morning on the job, Mrs. Patterson answered the door draped in a bathrobe. She stood with a gooey baby slung on her hip and a naked toddler clinging to her leg.
“Come in! I’m not ready,” she said. “Mr. Patterson left an hour ago. He’s so busy.” Before I could respond she shoved the baby into my arms while she grabbed the other youngster. “C’mon, let’s get you a diaper, Sweetie.”
The baby belted out loud shrieks while reaching for her mother. I felt important as I cootchie-cooed her. She ensnarled her tiny hands in my hair and tugged as she threw herself backwards. From the bathroom came a loud crash, followed by maniacal laughing from the toddler, who ran down the hall. I heard the drone of a stern warning as his mother hurried after him.
Shortly, Mrs. Patterson returned dressed in a simple shift and sturdy shoes, clipping an earring with one hand while lugging the naked toddler wrapped around her knee. “I’m running late. Please dress him. Little Sally is in her room getting dressed, I hope. Kisses, bye bye, Loves.” Mrs. Patterson whizzed by, handed off the toddler, ran her fingers through her cropped hair, then flew out the door.
I tried to tell her, “You forgot your other earring...,” but both youngsters went into spasms of screeching as if in competition to reach the loudest pitch. I did my best to comfort them.
Just as their wails subsided, the front door opened, and Mrs. Patterson popped her head in. “There’s a note on the fridge with instructions, telephone numbers ... let me see ... bottles in the fridge...diapers in the dryer ... help yourself to anything ... and, uh, let’s see ... oh yeah, nap time at 10:00 for the baby and again at 2:00. If you can get the others down then, good luck. Bye.” She bolted and both babies let loose with more protests.
Little Sally, a five-year-old still dressed in a pink princess nightie and with a mop of tangled hair, appeared. “I’m hungwy.”
I gave her my best Mrs. Donna Stone smile. “Give me a sec to take care of these little ones, then I’ll fix some breakfast.”
An hour later, with both babies wiped, diapered, and chirping in baby talk, I dumped cereal in bowls, splashed in milk, and scooped in sugar. I stuffed the youngest baby in a high chair, then poured a chunky red glop of baby food into a bowl for her. She stuck her fingers in and smeared everything in a slushy free form mess like a finger painting, then tossed the bowl upside-down to the floor at the same time the toddler clanged his bowl of cereal across the table, leaving spilt milk and cereal flakes in its wake.
More than once that first day, I retched while slathered with poop as I struggled to change the wiggly babies. Messes piled up like snow in a blizzard. They took naps, but never at the same time. By 4:00 Little Sally was still in her princess nightie, so I helped her dress then tried to brush her hair, which ignited in her a fierce defiance. I had the urge to swat her and I felt like crying, but I ended up begging her to hold still while I brushed. She relented, and then said, “My mommy will get mad at you if you keep pulling my hair. She’ll make you go away.”
I scowled at her.
At the end of the day I managed to have the house in decent shape with messes somewhat subdued, at least by my standards, but minutes before the mother was due home, the toddler found a tube of lipstick under the sofa and scribbled designs on his face and smudged one of the sofa cushions. I discovered this just as Mrs. Patterson walked in the door.
I apologized, “Sorry for the mess. I tried to keep up. I looked the other way for a second and when I turned around he’d colored with lipstick. I’ll help get him cleaned up.” I whisked him off to the bathroom to try to repair some of the damage.
When I returned, for a minute I secretly hoped Mrs. Patterson might fire me, but instead she tittered, “Oh don’t worry about anything. Everything looks as good as it gets. I can fix this sofa.” She turned the cushion over.
“Mommy!” Little Sally came from her bedroom followed by the toddler. They ran to their mother and tackled her with joyous hugs. The baby
crawled up to her and whined for a share of the attention. I picked up the baby, passed her off to her mother, and then I bolted—glad to have survived the first day, but certain I’d have more fun the next day.
I didn’t have fun the next day, or the next. The rest of summer continued in a blur of survival. I rarely saw Mr. Patterson, but when he did show up before his wife came home from her job, he’d greet the kids, then grab the newspaper and his pipe, and ask me to take the kids outside to play until his wife came home. “I need some quiet time. I need to relax,” he said. “I’ve been working all day.”
On these occasions, when Mrs. Patterson came flying in the door, in one fluid motion she’d drop her bag on a desk, greet Mr. Patterson, kiss the kids hello, and scurry into the kitchen to prepare dinner, but before doing this she’d show up with a mixed drink for her tired overworked husband.
“Thank you, Dear,” he’d say. “I’m starving. Let me know when dinner is ready.”
By the end of the summer, dreams of wedded bliss and having a family had dimmed considerably. And I quit watching The Donna Reed Show.
God made kids cute—otherwise the species wouldn’t have lasted this long. — Tenaj-ear Stromberg
BLADES AND A HAMMER; TOOLS OF THE TRADE
Be a good girl and pretend it never happened. — Anonymous Police Officer
When I was little I was taught that genitalia were naughty and gross. I remember the first time my chubby little hand went exploring down under. Mom pushed it away as she grunted with disgust—clear message there. I thought it was because of poo and pee, but I found out before I should have, that that secret place had something else going on.
When I think of Mom and Dad before they had me, I am reminded of those plastic wedding dolls standing stiffly side-by-side adorning the top of a wedding cake, who then suddenly come to life upon the arrival of my birth.
My parents were good, hardworking, and fun people who loved one another. Their bond was a solid match and was peppered with the usual ups and downs of married life. They met in college, at ages nineteen and twenty-one respectively, and married soon after Dad graduated from college. By today’s standards, they were practically infants.
After the wedding, Mom quit school to find a secretarial job to help Dad finish his studies and they set out to achieve the 1950s version of the American Dream—three kids, two cars, and a four-bedroom house with two bathrooms. Dad started his professional life as a high school science teacher and a coach. Both were raised during the depression era, and they knew how to find a bargain and stretch Dad’s salary to cover basic expenses. They saved enough to buy a tiny house, and then began in earnest the uphill climb to financial stability.
Mom popped out three babies in five years. Two years into their marriage, their firstborn arrived; my sister Kerry. I was the unplanned pregnancy and arrived nineteen months later. A little over three years later came their ultimate pride, a son named Carter.
We felt loved by our parents, and they managed the best they could, but Carter, because he was the baby of the family and a son, got the best of their experience and maturity and he grew up to be one of the most upbeat people I know. My sister and I grew up putting others’ needs first and learning how to take care of the men in the family.
Mom and Dad believed if they followed steps one, two, and three, their child-rearing practices would be flawless and invincible. They kept us fed and clean, and kissed away our owies. An occasional swat on our butts, prefaced with the line “this hurts me more that it hurts you,” kept us in line. Kerry, Carter, and I fought a lot growing up. My parents, like many, lacked communication and conflict-resolution skills, and passed on to their children a few wayward examples of shouting, belittling, and cold-shoulder approaches.
My brother sister and I were not close growing up, but we became close as we grew into adulthood. We all turned out to be generous, humorous, and loving people.
I have warm memories of my early childhood. During the first five years of my life, we lived near my maternal grandparents and cousins, so I enjoyed family picnics and celebrations of holidays and birthdays at my grandparent’s farm. My cousins and I spent time with our grandparents during summers, feeding newborn lambs, camping in their backyard in a large canvas tent, pushing one another on a swing Grandpa had set up in a big tree, rolling down hills, playing hide-n-seek, and causing general mischief. During summers, I stayed with my grandparents for a week at a time or went on camping trips with them. They tried to do this with each grandchild. They were model grandparents, and I loved them dearly. We all did.
My paternal grandparents and cousins lived a few states away. We saw less of them, but had many joyous reunions, even though Dad’s parents didn’t display as much loving affection to us as Mom’s parents.
Just before I entered first grade, my parents moved us to a small town called Helensville. Although it was a college town, it was the kind of place where everybody was related by blood, friendship, or gossip; and everybody’s business was everybody’s business.
Dad taught school full time and worked on a master's degree while Mom took care of the home and family. Mom and Dad made new family friends with young children, and together with these families, we established new traditions.
Every year we gathered in the mountains to go sledding, cut down Christmas trees, and have a big chili feed at someone’s home. Each summer the moms would round up the kids and take us to farmers’ fields to glean leftover potatoes, beans, corn, apples, strawberries, peaches, pears...and then organize us into production-line efficiency to fill the freezers with pies and jams and line the shelves with canned vegetables and fruits. The kids whined about the process but loved it at the same time, because the moms made it fun.
I started school knowing how to read and I was placed at the top of the class. I trusted everyone and did well in school. It was a perfect childhood in many ways, but my innocence was short lived.
Loss of innocence can happen all at once, or it can happen in stages, but it happens to everyone eventually. I lost mine in two stages by the time I was eight. My childhood tootled along uneventfully until first grade, when I was lured by an adult, a bad one. I had no frame of reference, only a little kid’s curiosity. I trusted everyone; I had no reason to be suspicious. I knew the difference between right and wrong, but I was excited in a way I didn’t understand. I didn’t think anything bad would happen, because nothing bad ever happened in my real life with my parents or in the fantasy life in Mrs. Donna Stone’s family.
Jane, my best friend, lived with her family a few blocks away from me. In those idyllic days, unconcerned by stranger danger, Jane and I walked to and from one another's homes without supervision or fear.
Between our houses, on a small farm surrounded by the modern suburban homes of Jane’s neighborhood, lived an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Blades. We liked to stop in for visits to watch them feed the chickens and milk their cow. They accepted our visits without much enthusiasm, but that didn’t deter us from dropping by unannounced. Mr. Blades dressed in overalls and looked like a stooped, shriveled version of Captain Kangaroo. Mrs. Blades resembled Mrs. Wilson from Dennis the Menace comics: stout, clothed in a shapeless dress, tied at the waist with an apron. Unlike Mrs. Wilson, she had a stern demeanor and unlike Mrs. Wilson, she never offered us cookies.
During one visit, Mr. Blades invited Jane and me to come with him to his tool shed out back.
“I have something to show you,” he said.
The three of us stepped from the sunlight into the dusky shed.
“Would you girls like to see some pictures I drew?” Mr. Blades asked.
“Pictures of what?” I asked.
“Naked ladies.” He snickered.
A funny feeling buzzed through me straight to that down under place. I looked at Jane and she looked at me; then we said, “No thank you, Mr. Blades.” We giggled a goodbye and went home, our innocence intact. But Mr. Blades had set the trap.
Walking home from school a few days later, Jane said to me, “Do you think Mr. Blades still has those pictures?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he burned them. Maybe Mrs. Blades made him tear them up.”
“Maybe he made more pictures.” Jane’s eyes twinkled. “I kinda want to see them.”
“Me too,” I said. “But I’d be in big trouble if my mommy and daddy find out.”
“I dare you to look at them.”
“Double dare,” I challenged. “But you have to promise not to tell my mommy and daddy.”
“I know that, Dummy. I promise not to tell your mommy and daddy if you promise not to tell my mommy and daddy.”
We stopped by Mr. Blades’s, hoping his invitation would be forthcoming again. Sure enough, after a few minutes he asked, “You girls wanna go look at the chickens out by the shed?”
“Yeah, sure.” Jane and I chimed. I felt Mrs. Blades’s eyes follow us to the shed as she stood thin-lipped and grimacing.
“You girls wanna see some of them pictures, don’t ya?” said Mr. Blades. “Heh, heh, heh.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“I got new ones to show you. You wanna see them new ones too?”
“Yes, Mr. Blades,” I said.
“Me too,” said Jane.
From beneath a stack of newspapers, Mr. Blades pulled out a series of crumpled sketches. He was not a skilled artist. I had just won a blue ribbon for a work of art at the county fair, so even as a seven-year-old I could have drawn better pictures. His collection consisted of stick figures with breasts and below them a bushy triangle. My mother had nursed her babies (uncommon in those days) so I knew about grown-up breasts, but I had no idea about the messy patch between the skinny stick legs. The forbidden zone of my own smooth privates did not compare with Mr. Blades’s drawings.
After the show, undaunted by what we’d seen, Jane and I ran home to her house, stopping along the way to let loose rounds of silly giggles.
Soon we shared our wicked secret with other children in the neighborhood. This increased Mr. Blades’s patronage. His exhibits became well known and well attended. We continued our visits, too. After a few more exclusive exhibitions, his requests became bolder. He wanted to show us his real piece of work. By this time, Jane and I, taken in by the arousal of these visits, agreed to another private viewing of his new show.
Mr. Blades unbuckled his overalls and let them drop to the floor. In the haze of swirling dust motes and sunlight, he revealed his masterpiece.
Until that moment, I’d seen only baby boys’ cute little penises. The disclosure of Mr. Blades’s equipment didn’t compare. It looked like a cross between a hot dog and raw hamburger. It had that red chopped-up look as though it had been through a meat grinder. Maybe it had. I didn’t ask.
Bravely, as if driven by a hidden force, Jane slowly reached out to touch IT. IT boinged upright and grew before our widened eyes. My stomach lurched and I thought it was the grossest thing I’d ever seen. My curiosity fizzled, as did my appetite for hotdogs or hamburgers.